


standardized methods of list making

by preromantics



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time Brad thinks about Nate during a combat jack is not entirely intentional on his part: his brain is still running down the day, the dirt of his grave unforgiving on his shoulders with the way his free arm is barely propping his body up.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	standardized methods of list making

The first time Brad thinks about Nate during a combat jack is not entirely intentional on his part: his brain is still running down the day, the dirt of his grave unforgiving on his shoulders with the way his free arm is barely propping his body up.

Brad likes lists. He likes the simplicity of making a list of what to do, like little commands laid out so he can decide the most efficient way to execute them. He likes making lists, compartmentalizing actions and ideas and crossing them off. He doesn't like taking the time to write them down, too inefficient, but he doesn't need to.

It only make sense to him, that after he comes thinking about Nate Fick's fucking lips, toes curling into his boots in a way that a combat jack shouldn't ever make happen, that he make a sort of list about ways to fantasize about his LT during downtime for maximum future self-induced orgasm potential.

Or -- it makes sense to Brad after he comes, body relaxing marginally enough for him to maybe think about actually sleeping for an hour.

Ray's voice filters through his subconscious sometime -- one hour, twenty three minutes -- later, and Brad blinks open his eyes to encounter Ray's foot raised halfway to (seemingly) kick Brad awake.

It only takes a three seconds for Brad to reach out and wrap his fingers around Ray's ankle. It takes four more for the satisfying sound of Ray's ass hitting the ground to fully rouse Brad awake.

"What, Person?" Brad asks, cutting through Ray's loud and spirited cursing.

Ray's mouth shuts, for a second, then pops back open. "Oscar Mike in ten," he says, like he had to reverse whatever shit was piling out of his mouth just to use real words, and Brad is barely standing before Ray starts in on cursing at him again.

(Brad lets him curse about his ass, ankle, Brad and about whatever other inane things seem to be connected in Ray's mind until they get completely set up in the humvee. It's good to let him get it all out for as long as possible before they start driving.)

Brad doesn't think about the list he'd started forming in his mind until he's reasonably confident the chances of them being ambushed (based on the projected journey's terrain and location of populated areas) are low (in terms considering their general pattern) enough.

The list gets long.

-

(There's a sort of top five within Brad's list, although it tends to shuffle around. Based on, although not limited to:

what Nate looks like when Brad sees him throughout the day: when he's especially dirty, Brad likes to jack off thinking about coming on Nate's face, about wiping away streaks of his come off Nate's cheekbones with his thumbs and then his tongue, watching as the dirt wipes away, too;

what Nate says to other people: when Nate curses more than often, he's frustrated, and Brad thinks about pressing him up against the side of the humvee in the dark, taking him roughly and pressing bruises into his hips until the tightness in the way he holds himself relaxes, each vertebrae of his spine shifting under Brad's hands;

and when Brad can see the silent frustration in Nate's face with every command he passes down, he thinks about taking Nate slow, about the noises he'd make if Brad used his tongue to open him up until he was shaking for it, mouth set in defiance around his noises until the pleases the now, Brad, nows came tumbling out.)

-

Down near the bottom of the list is what Brad imagines is near the top of the rest of the platoon's non-existant list of debauched positions to think of their LT in. It occupies a changeable position based on various factors, including but not limited to: the events of the day, how dirty Nate looks, and how badly Brad needs to get off.

It mostly comes down to Nate on his knees.

Brad has always liked lips, especially around his cock, and Nate -- well. It's not hard for Brad to lay in his grave, one knee shifted and bent to the side, hand around his dick with his eyes shut, thinking about Nate's lips stretched wide around. To think about Nate looking up at him, pupils wide, bottom lip dragging full, wet, and flushed deep pink -- that's almost enough. To think of Nate's hands digging into Brad's hips, fingers in the dips of the bone there, pressing enough to make Brad feel as he takes him down his throat -- that's definitely enough.

-

(It's not even that Brad needs the list. He trusts his head enough to know he could come up with any amount of scenarios featuring Nate when he needed to, it's just that having them categorized and organized is efficient.)

-

After Nate on his knees is Nate on his back: spread out on desert sand, knees bent against Brad's thighs. It's improbable, that they could find both the privacy and the space for it, but Brad doesn't mind, because it's part of the unspoken, never to be acted on list, and it gets him off.

Efficient.

Nate would be so tight, arch up against Brad so nicely. His back would be scraped red by the still-warm sand underneath him, and he'd dig his boots into the ground to get leverage against Brad's thrust.

They wouldn't make noise, the dead of the night all around them, save for echos of a low-watch camp, of sporadic fire in the background. Brad wouldn't have to see Nate to know his skin, to know what his eyes looked like, and with each flash of artillery and fire lighting up the horizon, every part of Nate that Brad had memorized without looking would be thrown into relief, better than anything Brad could conjure up in the dark.

-

(Brad doesn't let Nate distract him outside of his combat jacks. He doesn't watch Nate's lips instead of his face when he's passing down orders, he doesn't watch for subtle changes in Nate's expression and in his eyes that tell more than he means to.

He doesn't think about the best ways to relax the tension out of the line of Nate's shoulders. The best ways to melt the grit and exhaustion in his voice away.

He doesn't think those things, but regardless, none of it effects Brad's combat readiness. He can compartmentalize.)

-

The thing is, Nate is inevitably what Brad thinks about when he's getting off. Or in the small lulls in the day, eyes focused on the horizon while the back of his brain is off thinking of implausible scenarios.

As the steady pace and buzz of a forthcoming end to everything -- whatever they've been really doing -- draws nearer, the scenarios, the items on Brad's list grow increasingly more plausible and desperate. It's not his fault, either: it's the lack of sleep and food and Ray's incessant babble and the sand imbeded into Brad's skin and most of all it's Nate's fault.

Brad likes Nate's back, like line of it, likes thinking about the way he could run the pads of his fingers over the bumps in Nate's spine if he had him bent over something, a humvee or a kitchen countertop -- because somehow his thoughts, the spaces on his list for specific jerk-off fantasies keep taking twists and turns to being home, back in his apartment, or some place of Nate's, bedsheets that smell like him, Nate's hands fisted into a pillowcase, spread out under Brad's hands and mouth above him. 

There is still a top five in Brad's list but it keeps changing, keeps forming into thoughts and things he shouldn't be focusing on, what-ifs, ridiculous fucking thoughts with each gaze Nate levels him with like a promise of something neither of them have ever even come close to acknowledging. 

It's not something Brad can keep separate, anymore.

-

(All of it is something he tells Nate, years after, the sheet half over them, Californian breeze through a half open window just barely managing to wake them both fully up on their shared day off.

He talks about far-away and half-formed thoughts that don't make a difference, now, talking in a way he never would have before, Nate watching him with lazy half-open eyed, murmuring his assent into, his surprise, his amusement into the bare skin of Brad's beach-tanned shoulder. 

Brad doesn't need lists, on paper or in his head, except for maybe the list up on their refrigerator, something Nate bought him two years ago, specifically for lists -- groceries in both of their handwriting, things to do on the weekend or around the house, lists just for Brad to write down his thoughts over breakfast after Nate had already headed out for work. Lists of all the things he wanted to do to Nate after dinner, later, because the pad was there for him to do that. 

So he doesn't need lists, not anymore, doesn't need to compartmentalize ridiculous teenage-level fantasies about his LT while out in theatre in list form -- he doesn't need them because he has the real thing, rolling over top of him on a lazy morning, grinning slow and half awake, leaning down to cut Brad's words off with a murmuring, familiar agreement.)


End file.
